


The Bottom is the Top is the Redux

by fire_is_my_happy_place



Series: TF2 prompts and drabbles [6]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gore, I can't figure out why these two fuckers keep ending up in my thoughts, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Snuff, hate-sex, use of poisonous substances as lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 01:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6832936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_is_my_happy_place/pseuds/fire_is_my_happy_place
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief interlude occurring in the weeks after the events in The Bottom is the Top is the...</p><p>The RED Soldier is frustrated by the fact that the RED Medic has not changed and does not fear him. He tries to ambush the Medic, to make the man respond to him, but is instead ambushed by the Medic, who has plans for him. Both men, excited by the gore and the adrenaline of the battlefield, engage in a little competition of their own, but neither will back down.</p><p>What they discover is that they have a bit too much in common, that they cannot resist what they do to each other. </p><p>Sometimes, people do not bring the best out in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bottom is the Top is the Redux

The week after he strangled the Medic, the Soldier had intended to simply ignore the man, though he fully intended to check his door and room every night for unpleasant surprises. Whatever it was that the Medic had given them appeared to have fairly negligible withdrawal, or perhaps it simply took more than one dose. For that, the Soldier was relieved, even if he found himself longing, in idle moments, to have more for the diffuse warmth it had spread through his often sore skin. The Medic had given no sign of trying for revenge, nor had the Soldier found any nasty little gifts in his room. The Soldier finally shrugged it off, deciding that the Medic was either going to wait until he thought he could do the most harm or wasn’t planning revenge—the Medic’s normal, staid demeanor hadn’t changed. The man came out of his room in the mornings in the same white Oxford, vest buttoned, slacks pressed, glasses polished, made the same cup of tea, ate the same toast with the same spread, and said roughly the same things.

It was driving him a little crazy, to be honest. The Soldier wasn’t sure what he expected, but he expected something. Some sign of the fact that he had strangled the man and fucked his corpse. Fear, even a little avoidance would have been gratifying. Some sign that the Medic even remembered what had happened, let alone that he had been changed by that night.

There was nothing. Nothing that the Soldier could tell. No change.

The Spy, however, had taken to being considerably more polite, often changing his jokes and nasty sallies half way to exclude the Soldier, and making a show of acknowledging him in the hall as they passed each other, before and after each day’s battle. That, the Soldier was amused by, and more than a little titillated. He’d known on meeting the Spy that the man had… inclinations, but apparently the Spy had not known the same thing, and the resulting surprise had made any number of his normal habits different.

As far as the Soldier could tell, the Scout was avoiding them all, though when he thought no one could see him, he eyed the Soldier and Spy both with a combination of horror and something too complex to be desire. The Spy stalked the boy on and off the field. Never touching, he merely followed and sometimes let the boy see him, to the Scout’s yelped surprise.

The Medic bothered the Soldier. After what he’d done, he needed the man to… to acknowledge him. To pay deference to what had been done to him. Every other time he’d been rough with a man, it had made the man defer, or cringe, or just react.

Even on the field, even bloody and crouched behind a bit of wall, even flicking his medigun into uber, the Medic remained his normal, distant self.

It was not to be borne.

One week and two days after that night, the Soldier had his opportunity. The tide of battle had swept away from a dilapidated building that the Medic had ducked into, likely to give himself a moment of calmness, a moment to gather himself before dashing back out again. The Soldier followed him in, shotgun shouldered but fully loaded and ready, just in case.

The building appeared to be empty at first glance, the Soldier’s sun-dazzled eyes scouring it for the Medic’s long form, weighed down by his pack. Instead, the small, single room was empty, dust dancing in golden flecks in the shafts of sunlight that bore through the loose slats of the wall.

The Soldier swore and trotted forward to round a stack of crates, filled with something that had long since gone to rot. A moment later, a felt the thick prick of the Medic’s saw dig into his back.

They both paused, silence broken by the distant sounds of explosions and the rattling roar of the Heavy’s minigun.

“Well,” the Medic panted.

The Soldier sighed, shifting slowly and carefully despite the trip-hammering of his heart in his chest. “Well what, doc? What now?” He knew, _knew_ he should have expected the Medic to ambush him.

His answer was the Medic’s free hand, cupping and roughly squeezing the Soldier’s ass.

The Soldier’s eyebrows shot up, invisible under the rim of his helmet. None of them had thought the Medic would always bottom, but no one had been quite sure what flavor he was, other than to be in surreptitious awe of his gleeful, on-field sadism. Despite what he had done to the Medic, the Soldier was unwilling to let the Medic repay him—no one wanted to get that rusty saw in their guts on purpose.

“Doc,” he said slowly, “I have an idea.”

The Medic snorted, his free hand crawling around the edge of the Soldier’s hip to find the button fly of his BDU pants, stiff with sweat and the dark maroon of drying blood.

“I’m going to turn around,” the Soldier continued, his breath halting. “You might want to move that saw.”

For a moment, the saw pressed in harder, the Medic flicking the last button free on the Soldier’s fly and dislodging something viscous and wet. When the saw moved, the Soldier turned around, meeting the mix of contempt and hunger on the Medic’s face, his pale eyes burning where they peeked over the top rim of his glasses. The Soldier leaned slightly to the side, gently putting his shotgun down on top of the crates. He reached for the straps of the Medic’s pack and when the man didn’t stab him, pulled them down the Medic’s muscular, sweat-soaked shoulders, yanking them to clear the edge of his class patch.

The Medic grinned at him, a manic expression that did nothing so much as illuminate the hard points of his teeth and the unhinged look in his eyes, but the Soldier figured that the expression on his face wasn’t much better.

He’d never been able to keep himself from the wild, tingling rush of fear and excitement that accompanied a kill, and he’d been particularly lucky that day, so lucky that the Medic brushed a second, rubbery chunk of skin from the Soldier’s uniform shirt before tugging the bottom of it open to fully expose the Soldier’s cock.

The Soldier eyed the Medic’s saw as the Medic wrapped a sweaty, sticky hand around his cock. The Medic was terrifying, and just as likely to finish him off as stick the saw in his guts and let him bleed out until respawn picked him up. He moaned, loudly, and when the Medic’s eyelids fluttered in response, plucked the saw from him.

The Medic’s eyes snapped open, angry blush already staining his cheeks, but the Soldier reached for the button atop his slacks. He froze, his hand still wrapped around the Soldier, while the Soldier pushed the button through and yanked down his zipper.

When the Soldier pushed at the waist of the Medic’s slacks, the Medic helped him wriggle the filthy cloth down. As he’d suspected, the Medic was just as excited, a clear bead of precome already gathered at the tip of his flushed cock.

The Soldier chuckled, startling them both as the battle outside them came to a brief lull. Approaching voices told them that the front had headed back their way, and both men froze, staring at each other. It was not a position either man wanted their teammates, let alone the other team, to find them in.

The expression on the Medic’s face became sly, his lips quirking into a nasty half-grin, and he pumped his hand, startling a sigh from the Soldier, who glared at him.

“You’re crazy,” he mouthed, staring at the Medic, who shrugged in response, but kept his hand moving, caressing.

The Soldier’s eyes narrowed. If he was going to get caught with his pants down, he was _not_ going to be on bottom. A moment of fumbling in his slack pockets, and his hands emerged with the oil he used to polish his gun. The stuff was toxic, and in the Soldier’s opinion, fitting—they were covered in sweat, blood, viscera, gun powder, and a million other things no man should be covered in.

And he was about to fuck the Medic cross-eyed while his teammates killed each other around him.

The Medic’s mouth hung open for a moment, his cheeks paling and hand frozen. His pause let the Soldier swing him around and put his hands against the loose slats of the wall.

“Well,” he whispered in the Medic’s ear, a question he did not care if the other man answered.

The Medic’s eyes closed, and the Soldier could feel the man shiver but part his knees as far as he could in the confinement of his slacks, where they bunched around his ankles.

The Soldier grinned at him and pulled his hips, bending his ass out from the enveloping bell of his shirt. A light dusting of sand and freckles broke the milky surface of the Medic’s ass, and the Soldier hoped that the man ended up with enough sand in him to make him itch through the rest of the round.

Slicking himself up with oil made the Soldier want to cringe, the gasoline smell of it a warning, but it could not make him any less interested in what he was about to do. Out of the desire to see the Medic squirm, he worked the nipple of the bottle into his ass and squirted, making the Medic gasp and his knees quake. A few quick thrusts with his fingers opened the Medic up, already trembling with need and disgust.

“Keep your face right up against those slats,” the Soldier whispered. “I want them to be able to see you if they look just right.”

With his free hand he pressed the Medic’s face up against the splintered wood, then lined himself up and ground into the Medic’s waiting ass.

Slicker and hotter, the Medic’s ass already swelling in reaction to the gun oil, the Soldier stifled his moan into his knuckles. Outside the shed, a series of explosions told him that the Demo had trapped something near them, and the corresponding screams told him that someone had died. His skin prickled and ran, hair standing up against the spattered remains of his enemies and the stiff filth of his uniform. He should be out, killing more. He should be out, defending his teammates. He should be anywhere but there, anywhere but the stiflingly hot shed and buried, balls deep, in a man he hated.

It was terrible, fucked up, horrible.

It was perfect.

Perfect, the Medic’s ass quaking, sucking at him, throbbing with pain, his cock swelling from the chemicals in the oil, the screams of dying men around them, the fear of being discovered—the Soldier bit down on his knuckle and surged forward with a slap, digging the fingers of his free hand into the Medic’s hip. Perfect, the drying streaks of blood from friend and foe that tugged at his skin and mixed the smells of sex, gasoline, and raw hamburger. Perfect, the itching pain of the oil, the Medic’s spine where it was bent beneath him, the Medic open, wounded, filled with his cock. Perfect, knowing it was wrong, that they should be anywhere else but there.

As he watched, eyes blown with heat, the Medic whimpered against the slats, glasses knocked up by the thrust. One hand pumped below them both. The Medic’s other hand dug splinters from the slats, knuckles pale under his skin.

“Fuck,” the Soldier hissed, bringing his hands down to pin the Medic’s hips. “Fuck, doc.”

The Medic’s answer was an audible moan, lips distorted by the wood they were pressed against, his ass obscenely slurping at the Soldier's cock.

Bucking, throbbing, burning, the Medic’s ass loosening around him, the Soldier fucked him viciously, grating the Medic’s face against the wood and leaving streaks of blood while the shed shook with explosions and the screams of the dying.

“Any second,” the Soldier gasped, sweat sticking his uniform shirt to him. “Any minute now, doc, someone is going to see you.” He moaned, too aroused to stifle himself. “Any minute, someone is going to look through those slats, or they’re going to round the crates and see you like this, pants around your ankles, ass full of my cock, and they’re going to know what you are.”

The Medic screamed, the sound muffled by the wood and his own fist. He was speared, trapped, the oil burning in his guts, the Soldier’s cock tearing him open, any moment someone could round the corner to find him there, ass in the air, desperate to finish.

The Soldier kept pounding into him, driving his thoughts away, driving everything from him but the searing heat around them, the tickling dribbles of sweat, the sound of voices and death, the knowledge that anyone, anyone could see him, separated from them by nothing more than a few inches of wood, his heart thundering in his ears, inflamed skin of his ass clinging, pushing against the Soldier and unable to resist him.

The Soldier took a choked breath to speak again and the Medic came, fountaining over his fist and shaking with the tension of it.

A voice rang out from the door of the shed—“anybody in there?”

The Soldier came at that, bent down painfully over the Medic’s back as he spurted into the feverishly swollen skin of the Medic’s ass.

Footsteps, and both men flew apart, yanking up their pants and buttoning frantically.

When the Scout rounded the corner, both men were leaning against the wall, dressed and panting.

The Scout paused. The air stunk like sex, and both men were flushed, sweat sticking their uniforms to their bodies. They were disarmed, and telltale translucent streaks dappled the ground near them. He blushed, mouth opening to speak, but the Soldier beat him to it.

“What do you want, kid,” he panted, pushing his helmet back down on his head.

“N—Nothing, Solly,” the Scout replied, tripping over his feet in his haste to leave.

The Medic and Soldier looked at each other, both still itching and burning from the oil. With a single lunge, the Soldier grabbed his shotgun from atop the crates and brought it up, emptying both barrels into the Medic’s face. The Medic dropped to the floor and into respawn immediately, before he had time to be shocked.

The Soldier reloaded with a distracted grimace. “I hate this part,” he murmured, before giving himself the same treatment, his shotgun hitting the ground in a gout of brain and skull fragments.

The Medic waited for him outside respawn, saw raised. They eyed each other, distrust and something more vile than hate simmering in the air between them.

Seconds passed, then the Soldier lowered his gun. The Medic lowered his saw with a sigh, holstering it and flicking on his medigun, the beam leaping out into the space between them to halo the Soldier.

“Fuck, doc,” the Soldier said as they trotted back toward the battlefield. “That was… that was something.”

The Medic bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from replying.

He wanted to agree.


End file.
